Downers Grove (14 page)

“She's driving,” I said.

“How do we get there?” Tracy asked.

“Chrissie knows the way, right?” he looked at me.

“That charming spot across from the prison?” I asked.

He pressed his fingers through the fence and kissed me. “I'll see you there.” He turned to pack the rest of his gear. I watched him walk away. A shiver started up the back of my arms and surged from one end of my nervous system to the other. Tracy grabbed my hand and led me out to the parking lot.

“You dare leave him alone in that silicone jungle?” Tracy asked.

“Men are like a bungee cord, they stretch as far as they can, but always bounce back safely.”

“Yeah, but every once in a while you hear about one breaking.”

“And then he's dead.”

“What's the logic in that?”

“There is no logic in love.”

We got in the car and Tracy started the engine, revving it good, then swerved into the exit line and snaked her way out of the speedway lot. The highway was refreshing after that dusty stadium and those stinky hot dogs. The cool night air gushed in the window, crept over my skin, turned it to shivery goose bumps.

“It's too bad he didn't win,” Tracy said.

“Do you think he likes me?”

“It's a little soon for him to lay all his cards on the table.”

“I laid all mine on the table.”

“Guys always freak out when they get involved with someone. He probably just feels guilty or unworthy or both.”

“Tracy, don't compare my boyfriends with yours, Rolex and Timex, get the picture?”

“You shouldn't have let him have all the candy the first time in the store. A guy like that gets more sweetie-pie than the whole football team put together, more lipstick on his dipstick than—”

“Thank you, that's enough.”

T
HE
two-lane blacktop road was broken on the edges like a worn leather belt, bushes on both sides were chewing away the shoulder, the faded yellow stripes looked like they'd been painted a hundred years ago. We passed the Legion Hall parking lot, which was packed. A small blinking sign near the road advertised
THE ROADKILL PLAYBOYS
.

At the stoplight a blue station wagon pulled up beside us. Henry Rollins music was thumping against the window. Inside the car were four boys pogoing on their seats.

“What do you think?” Tracy nodded toward them.

“They look like the stupid kind of wastoids who get gobbled up in the first ten minutes of a horror movie,” I said.

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“That's a no, thank you very much.”

“You are getting to be such a snob.”

Tracy's future ex-husbands zoomed ahead when the light
turned green. Tracy putted along behind them. We passed the refinery fire, which was still lighting up the sky, but only drawing half the crowd. Even disaster gets boring after a while. Tracy gunned the VW over the rickety bridge and whipped a hard right down Archer Avenue. We drove past the refinery's glowing night shift, the Moose Lodge, Southwest Auto Salvage, Elks Lodge, Midway Tire, and the Hubcap Palace.

“Slow down. It's right around here somewhere.” I kept my eyes peeled for the cigar tree, squinting at every intersection for familiar landmarks.

“There it is!” I pointed at the next corner. “Turn right.”

Tracy downshifted and swerved toward the canal.

“It's the second driveway on the right.”

Tracy stopped just shy of the mailbox. The garage door was open. A large confederate flag hung on the back wall. Murky blue light shone on three guys holding plastic beer cups, one pumping a keg, all of them squinting toward the glare of our unfamiliar headlights.

“Let's not stay too long,” I said, trying to reel her in before she drank any more beer. Tracy raised an eyebrow at me, a sure sign of trouble. She turned off the car, pushed the door open, and grabbed her bag. I got out slowly and followed her into the garage.

“How's it goin'?” Tracy asked, waving her hand in the air like a tourist who didn't understand the language.

“A lot better since you all showed up. Who wants a beer?” The fat guy was cordial, almost grateful for our appearance. He handed each of us a foaming paper cup. Tracy sipped hers. I let mine spill over the top.

“We must be early,” I said. “Where's Bobby?”

“On his way,” the short one said. “Who are you?”

“Just a friend. I'm Chrissie and this is Tracy.”

“I'm Kevin.” He reached out his hand to shake mine. He had dry coarse hands, big though, for such a little guy. His eyes were black and seemed unable to focus on anything.

“This is Greg,” he said, nodding toward the tall slouching skinny guy wearing a Jack Daniel's T-shirt. He didn't look very friendly and spit some tobacco juice into a stack of tires. “And that there's Danny.” He pointed with his thumb toward the fat guy, who smiled ear to ear like a character in a children's book.

“Did ya see the race?” Danny asked.

We both nodded. “Sure was loud,” Tracy said.

They all laughed like we were cute or something.

“Where's the bathroom?” I asked.

“First door on your right,” Kevin said.

“So,” Tracy said, clearing her throat, “how do I get a job racing cars?” They all laughed again.

I went through the doorway and down the hallway. Greasy black auto parts were stacked along the walls. A washer and dryer covered with dirty rags were tucked under some shelves holding a collection of pesticides, rusting cans of Black Flag and Raid.

The building smelled musty, like water damage had seeped through the roof and spread into the walls. The bathroom sink was almost black, the mirror a smudgefest, the toilet covered with yellow pee stains. Mold was eating up the shower curtain, spiderwebs hung above it. There was an old razor on the sink,
a dirty yellow bar of soap, and opposite the toilet hung a MOPAR calendar with a picture of a topless blonde leaning over an old red car: Miss December.

I peed and flushed, pulled my underpants up in a hurry, wiped my hands on my dress, then walked back into the garage and rescued my beer.

“More Miller,” Tracy said, kinda disappointed.

The beer was cold and the white suds felt comforting on my upper lip. My throat was still dusty from the racetrack and the beer coated my inside, hopefully killing all the germs I just inhaled in the John.

More cars began to fill up the driveway, mostly guys. They all approached the keg with comfortable familiarity. There was a tall slender woman with jet black hair and a dragon tattoo slithering up her arm who stood out from all the rest. She was wearing black vinyl boots with matching fingernails, purple lipstick, two-tone Asian eye shadow, and a perfume that sucked all the fresh air out of the garage. Her skin was pale, almost purplish, and she worked that Addams Family style, like Morticia from Bolingbrook. She looked like the queen of some suburban coven or the owner of an exotic flower shop, one that sold orchids and Venus's-flytraps.

“Where's Bobby?” Tracy whispered. I shrugged my shoulders, found an old tire to sit on. Tracy leaned against the wall. Danny came and sat on a tool chest beside us. He wore a black T-shirt under a purple polyester shirt and black Wranglers. A gold eagle belt buckle bigger than my fist saddled his swelling belly. His glasses were tinted blue, and his greasy blond hair hung halfway down his back. He was missing a finger on his left hand and I tried not to stare.

“How long have you known Bobby?” he asked.

“Just a couple of weeks,” I said. “I met him at the gas station.”

“That's how I met him.” Danny laughed. I got the feeling he would have laughed at anything I said.

The dragon lady was staring at me, as if she wanted to burn my eyes out with her cigarette.

“What's her problem?” I asked.

“That's Asha Lorenza. I'm afraid she's got eyes for Bobby too.” He glanced her way. “And I think she's been on the waiting list a little longer than you have. Bobby ran a hell of a race tonight. He was inspired. I believe Asha has sniffed out our boy's new blood.” He looked at me like some jaded uncle, as if he'd seen this psychodrama played out several times before. I blushed red as cherry Kool-Aid. He tapped my beer cup with his, we bonded. Tracy tapped mine and killed the rest of hers.

“Want another one?” Tracy asked.

“Sure she does.” Danny cheered.

Tracy walked over to the keg, made eyes at me, looked over at this cute guy with sandy blond hair wearing a faded blue Levi's jacket, then back at me. I shook my head no and she laughed.

“So how'd you hook up with Bobby?” I asked Danny.

“I work the parts counter in the yard.” He took a hit off his beer. “Bobby brings in a lot of wrecks scraped off the highway. We got to know each other pretty good. He was always talking about racing. One night I got so drunk I guess I promised to build him a car.” Danny laughed again.

“Wasn't there another driver before Bobby?” I asked.

“Bobby's the only one crazy enough to get in that car. He's been fearless. He might actually win one of these nights.”

“Tonight was so close,” I said. “I almost had a heart attack.”

“Me too!” He laughed.

“Is he a good driver?”

“He ain't dead yet.” Danny laughed again. “I'm usually just happy to see him come back alive. It may not be the fastest car, but it holds together.”

“Where do you suppose he is?” I asked.

“Starting to wonder myself,” he said.

I shifted on the tire, worried that he was arrested, that the cops were about to raid this pit stop any second now. I wondered what Danny knew and whether I should tell him what I did, but I wasn't sure where Bobby drew his borders and I didn't want to go anywhere without a passport.

“I'll be right back.” I got up and walked around the keg to the other side of the garage, looking for Tracy, but didn't see her anywhere. I didn't see the guy with the Levi's jacket either. She doesn't waste any time.

Danny got off the tool chest and approached some of Asha's groupies. All of a sudden I was the wallflower at the kegger. There were a few guys staring at me, but most of them resembled wanted posters in the post office, so I went and hid in the bathroom. Beer makes me pee as fast as I drink it. I gave myself a fresh dose of lip gloss and whispered a mantra to the disciple of future boyfriends, but when I opened the door, I came face-to-face with Asha Lorenza. Flashing an
über
evil smile, her icy vampire breath purred at the soft veins of my throat. I retreated a step, leaned against the doorway, fumbled for a cigarette.

“You scared me,” I said.

“I scare a lot of girls,” she said. “So what's your name?”

“Chrissie,” I said. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”

We stared at each other through an awkward silence. She was sizing me up for a coffin, and I was looking for a weapon to put an end to the wicked witch of the Midwest. Where the fuck was Bobby?

“So how long have you and Bobby been friends?” she asked.

“A while.”

“Did you find him or did he find you?”

“I pulled into the gas station. He came to my window. Do you know where he is?”

“He just called. Apparently the trailer had a flat tire. He said he'd meet us down at the Roadhouse.”

“You mean that strip joint out on Frontage Road? Why would he want to go there?”

“I own the place.” She smiled. “Do you need a lift?”

“I have a ride, thanks.” I started to walk away.

“Should I tell Bobby you're on your way?” she asked.

I went down the hallway, through the garage and circled the empty keg. No Tracy. I walked to the end of the driveway. Tracy's car was gone. She had abandoned me, and now everyone was abandoning the party. There were a few stragglers hanging out in the corners, but nobody I wanted to get to know any better, so I made casual toward Asha's car.

“Is there still room for me?” I asked.

Asha rolled down her window. “Sorry, babe,” she said, “this one's full, try the one behind us.”

I walked over to the other car. Some gangly greaseball with
green teeth and scrawny shoulders rolled down the window. His buddies were staring at me like a car full of retarded serial rapists.

“Can you guys give me a lift?” I asked. The car door popped open, no questions asked. This was the luckiest day of their lives, and it's all Tracy's fault if I end up on the back of a milk carton. I looked back at the empty garage wondering whether I should reconsider, then bent down and climbed into the backseat. The car smelled like pot. The door slammed shut, the driver shifted into reverse and backed out of the driveway. The wagon train sped off to the strip club.

“You wanna get stoned?” the guy next to me asked. His eyes were red as Life Savers, swollen like a pair of catcher's mitts.

“No thank you.” I passed it up front. The car sailed along with Marilyn Manson cranked. The guy on the other side was playing air guitar.

“So are you a dancer or something?” the stoner asked.

“Or something,” I said.

“Wow.” His eyes nearly popped out of his head. “I never met a something before.” The whole car cracked up: stoner joke extraordinaire.

The driver turned up the stereo, started singing along, and so did the guy riding shotgun, and before long the backseat joined in at the chorus.

“You guys should start a Marilyn Manson tribute band,” I said mockingly.

They just sang louder, the guy in front screaming at the chorus. Fucking idiot wanna-bes. I'm going to kill Tracy.

T
HE
caravan slowed down just before the Interstate bridge and turned left onto Frontage, a dark two-lane road that ran parallel to the highway then dipped back into the woods. Two white aphrodite statues guarded the driveway of the Roadhouse, a two-story barn with a satellite dish on the roof. A small red bulb glowed over the doorway. The sign above it read TOPLESS in gold neon script. There were a lot of motorcycles near the front door, a pair of sixteen-wheelers at the far end of the lot, a hot rod, and a couple beaters in between. I didn't see Bobby's car anywhere.